What Alice Knew

by Paula Marantz Cohen

  “Notice the first essay,” prompted Cohen, as William turned to the Contents page.

  “‘Murder Considered as a Fine Art,’” recited William.

  “A suggestive piece of writing in which to place a photograph of a murder victim, don’t you think?”

  William nodded. He knew the essay—it had appeared some fifty years earlier in the popular literary magazine Blackwood’s and had circulated widely since. He recalled that he had once praised its cleverness in a conversation with his father, who had responded with surprising vehemence. “It’s easy to make clever claims for degeneracy,” Henry Sr. had said, “but it takes a deeper talent to show why evil must be strenuously countered by the force of good. An argument like De Quincey’s gives no counterforce to evil and therefore shares in the degeneracy it mocks.”

  The validity of his father’s position now struck William with particular force. De Quincey’s argument fit with Alice’s theory that the murderer was a perverted sort of artist.

  “Look through the article itself,” instructed Cohen.

  William flipped through the pages and stopped where a line had been lightly underlined in pencil. “‘…as to old women, and the mob of newspaper readers, they are pleased with anything, provided it is bloody enough. But the mind of sensibility requires something more.’”

  In the margin, also in pencil, was a kind of tracery in the style of an ornate graphic. “What is it?” asked William, pointing to the notation. “A code of some sort?”

  “I’ve studied it, and it looks to me like letters. P/W but with an X superimposed.”

  William squinted down at the graphic. “Quite right.” He nodded. “Initials crossed out? The slash—if it is that”—he noted a kind of curl in the line between the letters—“might be a slip of the pen. It could refer to someone the reader wanted eliminated.”

  William had made quick note that none of the victims had the initials PW before shifting his attention to the volume itself. He examined it more closely. It was in good condition, bound in red leather, and the frontispiece said it was published in 1854 as part of a twenty-volume set.

  “Do you have the other volumes?” he asked Cohen.

  “No. I often get hold of strays like this. The trick, if you want to make money, is to know where the rest of the set is.”

  “And do you know?”

  “Yes—or at least where it was once.” Cohen took the book and flipped to the inside of the back cover, where he indicated a small stamp with the initials A and S. “It stands for Abrams & Son,” he explained. “Asher Abrams is a dealer of some note in the city. He used to have a pawn brokerage in this neighborhood, but he’s gone up in the world since. No doubt this volume became detached from a set he purchased, and it was sold to me by one of the area dustmen. Normally I would try to sell it back to him, since the set is worthless if it’s not complete, but in this case, I thought it best to give it to you. It might be helpful in catching the maniac who is preying on the poor and unfortunate.”

  William looked at Cohen suspiciously. Was the man being disingenuous? He could not bring himself to believe it. Though clearly at odds with his society, he seemed the sort of person who might wreak havoc, not out of calculation, but out of idealism and purity of motive. It was true, moreover, that Cohen couldn’t very well bring this evidence to the police, who had already arrested him under suspicion of being Jack the Ripper.

  “Abrams has a shop in Soho and lives in one of the fashionable districts,” Cohen continued. “Your friends will know of him, since his trade is with gentlemen collectors and established artists. I’ve seen his daughter in Whitechapel now and again, though I can hardly imagine what business she has here. A real beauty; carries herself like the queen of the Nile.” Cohen seemed to find the image of Abrams’s daughter momentarily diverting, and then, as if recalling the larger social context, never far from his mind, summed up contemptuously, “But beauty and riches won’t do her any good when the Revolution comes.”

  Chapter 25

  William and Henry were seated at the little table in their sister’s bedroom the next morning. Henry was eating a large bowl of the oatmeal with brown sugar that Sally had made for him (Archie, Sally had announced proudly, had already eaten two bowls). William ate a banana (as part of his Fletcher diet), and Alice, excited to hear her brothers’ news, had eaten nothing, despite the protestations of Katherine that she must keep up her strength if she were going to expose a murderer.

  She listened to Henry’s account first. He tried, as far as he could, to relay the sense of importance he felt attached to Sickert’s imitation of Whistler’s laugh. Katherine and William didn’t see much in it, but Alice was more encouraging. “Henry’s instincts are the most developed in the family,” she asserted. “If he senses something worth pursuing in this Sickert, then it must be respected. Interesting how we seem to return to Whistler; but you say that he’s out of the question as a suspect?”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “He’s in Paris on his honeymoon and hasn’t been in London since July. I have ample correspondence from Bourget and others to that effect. Besides, someone who laughs like Jimmy is hardly likely to render laughter that way in writing.”

  Alice nodded. “You’re saying it’s laughter someone else might notice and imitate. It’s the parodic aspect that struck you.”

  “Precisely,” said Henry, pleased to have it put so well. It was indeed the element of parody that impressed him in the Ripper letters and that the young Sickert had echoed in his verbal imitation.

  “Sickert,” Alice ruminated. “A name worthy of a murderer. William says that we mold our personalities to our physical characteristics. Why not to our names? Had I been named Dolly or Daisy, I’m sure I would have been gay and pretty instead of grim and plain.” She sighed and returned to the topic at hand. “You also said Sickert had a gift for mimicry and comfort with costume and that he is an artist with a dark and macabre palette. It’s all very suggestive.”

  Henry nodded complacently. It was pleasant to have his sister’s approval, especially as her subsequent response to William’s findings was less enthusiastic.

  “How do you know that the essay is even related to the photograph?” she said, looking skeptically at the book that William handed to her. “Perhaps one of the police planted the picture in order to frame this social revolutionary Cohen.”

  “It’s possible,” acknowledged William. Cohen had said he saw an officer find the photograph, but sleight of hand was not to be discounted.

  “The essay is fairly well-known,” continued Alice. “It’s likely to elicit interest on a purely academic level from many readers.”

  “Gosse often mentions the piece,” piped in Henry. “His father used to read it to him as a child. Scared him half to death.”

  “But the underlined sentence and the initials,” insisted William, pointing to the volume. It had seemed compelling at the time. Now it seemed less so. Could Cohen himself have introduced the volume in some effort to throw the police off track?

  “Have you been able to make sense of the initials?” asked Alice. “PW crossed out?”

  “No,” said William. “None of the murder victims have those initials.”

  “There’s a mark between the letters,” noted Henry, peering over his brother’s and sister’s shoulders. “Perhaps an ampersand. Sickert’s first name is Walter. Polly and Walter,” he suggested.

  “Then, the X would make sense,” agreed William grudgingly. He was always somewhat annoyed by his brother’s quickness. “Though it is a bit infantile. The sort of thing a child might carve into a tree.”

  “And our killer is too sophisticated for that.” Alice smirked. “He only carves up bodies.”

  There was silence as the three of them pondered the conundrum. Katherine, who had been sitting quietly in the corner of the room, then spoke up. “Walter Sickert is married to Ellen Cobden,” she said.

  Everyone looked at her, surprised.

  “Jane Cobden’s sister,
” she clarified. Katherine and Alice were both friendly with Jane Cobden, daughter of the noted liberal reformer Richard Cobden. He had four daughters, all known for their beauty and intelligence, of whom Jane was the most politically engaged and the best known to Alice and Katherine.

  “That’s interesting,” said Alice. “How old is Sickert?”

  “Quite young,” said Henry. “Late twenties at the most.”

  “Jane is my age, and Ellen is older by a few years, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” agreed Katherine. “I haven’t met her, but I know she’s older than Jane.”

  “That would put her close to forty,” said Alice. “So much older than her husband—and the age of the Ripper victims.”

  They all considered this information a moment. Henry then shifted uncomfortably as he began to turn against the idea he had originally proposed. “Just because Sickert said ‘ha ha’ doesn’t mean he murdered five women on the East End.”

  “Of course not,” said Alice.

  “And theatrical talent means nothing. We don’t suspect Henry Irving.”

  “Certainly not,” said Alice.

  “And because the fact that his wife is older than he is shouldn’t be held against him.”

  “On the contrary,” agreed Alice.

  William intervened. “None of this is of any consequence unless we can find a motive that ties it all together. If our speculation about the murders is true, that they represent a kind of frustrated artistic expression, then there must be something to bear that out in this man’s career.”

  “Sickert appears to be quite successful,” noted Henry. It struck him that he had more of a motive than Walter Sickert, if one went by that.

  “External success and internal fulfillment can differ widely,” warned William. “He may feel himself inhibited or overshadowed in some way that we do not know.”

  “The relationship to Whistler,” proffered Alice.

  “Jimmy is overbearing and egotistical,” agreed Henry, “but this Sickert doesn’t seem the type to be intimidated.”

  “Vulnerability is not always apparent on the surface,” William noted again. “Or at least not on the surface that we are aware of. One has to see the context thoroughly before passing judgment on a subject’s mental health.” He glanced at his sister who, by all accounts, was a strong-minded woman, apart from the fact that she could not get out of bed.

  “We must find out more about Walter Sickert,” concluded Alice. “I will make it my business to speak to Jane Cobden about him. It is up to you to research his past—his career, his education, his friendships. He is no doubt entirely innocent. But…” Her face clouded. “What if he’s not?”

  “I will ask Abberline to place him under watch,” said William.

  Alice nodded. “One more thing,” she added casually, as they were about to leave. “I must meet him.”

  The brothers stopped at the door.

  “It is the surest way for me to know if there’s anything to it. Henry, you must have a dinner party to honor our brother’s visit to London, and you must invite Walter Sickert, perhaps as a stand-in for Whistler. I’m sure you and John Sargent can come up with a convincing pretext. Arrange it for Sunday evening,” she instructed peremptorily. “We cannot afford to waste time.”

  Henry looked uneasy. He doubted very much if Mrs. Smith would be up to a dinner party. Especially on such short notice.

  “Katherine will help,” said Alice, as if guessing his concern. “I know it is not in your line to host such things. It isn’t in my line to attend them. But we must both exert ourselves.”

  The prospect of doing so, however, had already brought on a headache. She waved her hand to indicate that the visit was over. She would exert herself, as she said she would, to find out if Walter Sickert was involved in these heinous crimes, but that would be later; for now, she would rest.

  Chapter 26

  Asher Abrams?” said Sargent. “Of course I know him. He’s a dealer but also a generous patron. I’ve painted his family half a dozen times and been very well paid for it.”

  William had explained his desire to trace the source of the De Quincey volume that had been stamped with the imprint of Abrams & Son, and Sargent had quickly gotten him an invitation for Friday dinner at the Abrams home on Connaught Square. “If you do not get satisfaction in your search,” his friend promised, “you will at least spend an entertaining evening. Asher Abrams has a lively family. They may not have pedigree, but they have life. Everything about them is colorful.”

  As Sargent had promised, the Abrams home, into which William was ushered by a white-capped Irish maid, was a feast for the eyes. It was not just that the furnishings were lavish, though they were. There were marble floors and crystal chandeliers and furniture, rugs, and drapes of the most luxurious and costly variety. But there were also more exotic items mixed profligately with this opulent fare: inlaid furniture from Persia, screens and wall hangings from China and India, and large numbers of ornaments and relics—candelabras and samovars, scrolls and urns. Most compelling amid this riot of rare and exotic things were the pictures. Asher Abrams’s walls were covered in every possible space with paintings of the highest quality. Many featured biblical scenes, not just from the Old but the New Testament (for Abrams, art had obviously been uncoupled from its religious associations), but there were also still lifes and portraits by recognized old masters as well as paintings by more modern artists of note—the French Corot and David, the English Gainsborough and Reynolds.

  As William was gazing at a painting by the hand of the Dutchman Vermeer, a young woman entered the room and walked with a purposeful stride to greet him. On Mansell Street, he had experienced a jolt at the thought that Cohen had fled the area; now, at the sight of the figure before him, he experienced another sort of jolt. The woman was young, in her early to midtwenties. She had dark, straight eyebrows, large, heavily lashed eyes that looked to be a bright violet, a coil of shiny black hair atop her head, a rounded face, square jaw, rather pointed chin, and an ample mouth that managed to be both extremely sensual and extremely refined. The nose was prominent and dipped slightly in the fashion he associated with caricatures of the Jewish physiognomy, but in this case, the effect was astonishingly appealing, giving a touch of dramatic vulnerability to the otherwise large, regular features. William thought of the Song of Solomon, that ode to female beauty. It must surely have been written to someone who looked like this.

  The effect of the face on William was both delightful and disturbing, and he realized that this combination of feelings carried him back to his youth. When he had begun his medical training and linked himself in matrimony to his Alice, there had been a welling of relief at disaster averted. He had, after much thrashing about in turbulent waters, finally found the shore. But there had also been a residue of regret. He had left indecision and solitary search behind; had chosen science over art, the stability of the mind over the sensuality of the body. It was the exchange required for his sanity. Yet there were times, wandering through a museum or sitting at the opera, when he felt a surge of desire for the life he had not lived. It even struck him sometimes that his impatience regarding his brother’s writing was connected to his own buried past.

  Looking at this woman brought his unsettled youth back to him in a rush. He did not know why he associated her face with that past life. Perhaps she reminded him of one of the artist models during his failed apprenticeship as a painter. Or perhaps her exotic beauty and her ethnicity suggested something forbidden, outside the realm of the familiar New England world in which he had settled. Or perhaps it was simply that her face, even at first glance, was so expressive that it seemed to have a capacity for the kind of deep and powerful feeling he associated with his younger self. Whatever it was, the face was arresting in its beauty and vibrant humanity in a way that drew him up short. Added to this was the disorienting impression that he had seen it before—an impossibility, surely, but an impression, nonetheless, of which he instantaneous
ly felt certain.

  As the woman approached, the contradictory feelings she aroused of both otherness and familiarity made him almost lose his balance, and he grabbed the back of the armchair close by.

  “Are you well, Professor James?” she asked, raising a dark eyebrow as she registered his distress. “You seem agitated.” Her voice was low, and there was a touch of the melodious foreign lilt that William had noted in many Jews, even those native to a locale.

  William assured her that he was fine. “Have we met?” he asked, trying not to stare but doing so all the same.

  “We have not,” she replied. “But I was pleased to hear from Mr. Sargent that you wanted to meet us. I am familiar with your work and admire your attempt to connect philosophy, a science devoted to the general, with mental operation, a science concerned with the individual. It is something that Hebraic law—perhaps all religious law—attempts to do in its clumsy way. But you give it secular expression, which strikes me as useful. We may worship different gods, but we must all live on the same earth together, and it would be best, if we could, through the establishment of certain principles of behavior, transcend the sectarianism of any particular religious system of belief.”

  William continued to stare at the speaker. It was rare for a woman to have an opinion on such matters, much less to speak about them with this sort of eloquence. His sister was possibly the only woman he knew capable of doing so. But here was a stranger who had performed the impressive feat of simplifying his philosophy in terms that were at once accurate and unique.

  “And with whom do I have the honor of speaking, who knows my philosophical goals so well?” he asked, trying to keep his voice as detached and casual as he could.

  “Ella Abrams,” said the young woman. “Or rather, Miss Ella Abrams. The English are very keen on letting a gentleman know one’s marital status at once.” She spoke jauntily, and William was not certain whether she was being dismissive of the practice or subtly flirtatious—possibly both.